by illimitableoceanofinexplicability

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Think about this for a minute (if you dare). You’re out on the town, say with an intimate partner, after a long day at work, just wanting to unwind with a delightful picture show. You following me? Okay, so, there you are sitting next to your special friend eating some hot buttered popcorn waiting for the film to start when suddenly across the giant screen is projected the handsome, but somehow inexplicably upsetting visage of Jack Horrorchild, Official Poetizer of The Institute for the Study of Slightly Varying Circumstances. So, there you are, no doubt frozen in the sort of primordial panic that possesses someone buried alive when through the speakers comes the miraculously soothing voice that you know immediately can belong to no other than, Jack Horrorchild, and he is telling you all the things you long to hear, whispering them to you alone. His breath unpleasant and hot, kind of moist feeling. While every word, every pause between the words, even the way he mispronounces and misuses the words sends you spinning into a bliss only comparable to the ecstatic heights reached by dedicated students of the mystery religions after years of solitude on the side of a windswept mountain somewhere far away from all of this materialism of modernity. Wouldn’t that be cool? I think it would. I have no idea what you’d do after that. Probably go help people who needed it, maybe start a blog or something.